Philip and Isabel spent much time in the saddle. Heavy rains of the season had suspended, leaving the country fresh and fragrant. Heather-toned effects on mountains round about, the sky so azure that the depths of blue seemed immeasurable, drew the newly wedded pair each morning. They always found Cole waiting with their horses. It soon grew to be an event for less favored guests of the hotel to watch the couple mount, then gallop off. Isabel had no suspicion of the incessant comment created by her slightest public movement. With Philip it was different. But for his wife's complete satisfaction he would have chosen a retreat on the foothills above the sea. He knew of such a place, and longed to leave the crowded hotel, where all were talking behind his back, whispering of his abolished priesthood, impugning his motives, testing his action by opposing scales of ignorant enthusiasm and bitter prejudice. For he constantly heard unguarded remarks, felt the prick of gossip as he passed from one place to another. Isabel was all unconscious of her husband's sensitive state. For Philip had kept his word, treating Gay Lewis, and in fact every one whom he met, with due consideration. Miss Lewis hung on his slightest word, while at the same time she established Isabel with an elect coterie of young wives whose husbands played tennis or polo at the hotel country club. Afternoons were often passed in watching sports in the open. Sometimes Philip and Isabel cantered into the club grounds in time for a simple luncheon; frequently they joined new acquaintances at table. Then again they sat apart by themselves, relaxing after a long ride through the valley or on the wonderful mountain road as yet undesecrated by automobiles. For at St. Barnabas the ubiquitous motor car is somewhat restrained. The famous mountain drive is still a tradition and sacred to the family carriage and "happy tots" on ponies. Philip and Isabel never grew tired of walking their horses around curves, which made the winding way a panorama of sky, mountains, valley, and sea. "There is nothing more lovely in the world!" Isabel would exclaim each time they left the upland for the return sweep past beautiful villas and gardens. Then came a gallop by the ocean. But on other days they took a different direction, going past "The Mission," riding, as it were, beyond the pale of sacred history into territory where heretics alone might disregard the murmured prayers of monks. It was strange how the work of the old fathers dominated the landscape. At points the mission held the skyline, and on every side its twin towers proclaimed the beauty of simple strength. To the man cast out from Catholic favor there was inanimate reproach in every elemental line of the early church. Against the blue a perspective of pure Spanish architecture fascinated him. His thoughts went out—against his will—to the cathedral he had longed to perpetuate. Romish emotion, fostered at birth, imbibed with his pious mother's milk, rose unbidden;—a challenge to his love for Isabel. His wife always seemed to conquer, and he stifled the dread that threatened as he turned his back on the mission. Then suddenly it loomed once more. Again he felt its compelling powers, its binding simplicity. Meanwhile, no suspicion of Philip's struggle entered Isabel's mind, for her own keen delight in the church was serene. The mission to her was an esthetic opportunity, a relic that a comparatively new world ought to be proud of. She was a purist in art, and after a second visit to St. Barnabas she loved every line of the historic mission. Yet she had not asked her husband to go inside of a now forbidden place. She longed to enjoy once more the marvelous view from the twin towers, but as doing so would involve Philip, she had given up the idea. Their honeymoon was already perfect. Each day she felt happier, more certain that she had been wise to marry Philip. Once she marveled at a young priest's power; now the man—her husband—held her with the same irresistible fascination. For Philip was a wonderful lover, both implied and manifest. And besides, after a fortnight's trial, Isabel pronounced him the most charming comrade. Also, there were moments when the two felt willing for a silent interval, when neither one spoke or demanded attention. It was at such times only that Philip unconsciously brooded over the ecclesiastical tragedy of his life.

But Isabel blindly rejoiced in her husband's balance, while each gay canter past the mission brought fresh assurance of his good sense. Then suddenly one morning he asked her to dismount for an interior view of the old church. She did not hesitate. It seemed manly, natural, that he should be strong enough to put aside personal feeling, should be able to enjoy an esthetic opportunity at hand. And she shrewdly divined that he was tired of denying his interest in the supreme tourist sight of the locality. By going through the mission his noticeable attitude might be changed. She had no appreciation of his risk from the Catholic standpoint. As she walked forward by his side she felt neither embarrassment nor fear. After all, they were both strangers, coming with thousands of others who looked, departed, and left an offering of money. The gold of heretics had really restored the mission. The man once a priest led his wife beneath an historic arch of the long gallery. Here the two stopped. Three brown-cloaked monks sat on a bench enjoying the sun.

"We should like to go through the mission," said Philip.

The oldest "brother" of the trio arose. "You are welcome," he answered pleasantly.

The two younger monks got up quickly, passed before the visitors, crossed a whitewashed anteroom, unlocked a solid door, then sprung it back in the face of oncoming Isabel. But despite the haste of a fleeing order she had caught a glimpse of the sacred garden beyond, and it did not occur to her disqualified judgment to regard herself as a natural temptation for carnal thoughts. She simply smiled at the rude opportunity enjoined by holiness. As she followed the "brother" in charge of the regulation tour for strangers, she kept wondering about the tall, handsome monk who had used a pass key on the spring lock of the oaken door.

He was a splendid specimen of manhood, and Isabel could still see his fine head, his modeled jaw and chin, the strong mouth; above all, the swinging freedom of his limbs underneath his rough brown habit. She regretted the unattractive personality of the attending brother, yet at the same time she tried—as she always tried—to repay a debt with simple gratitude. It was soon plain that the austere monk regarded her with favor.

As they went from one small whitewashed room to another, pausing to examine some rude relic of early mission days, Isabel led in the conversation. "It is all very interesting," she declared. "And the church has been so consistently restored," she went on. "I do not wonder that you are proud of the only mission in California which has not been treated to some shocking innovation. Even the dear old church at San Gabriel has taken on a modern redwood ceiling utterly devoid of art's religion."

The brother's thin lips drew apart in a quizzical smile. "You must become a Catholic and help us to preserve the crumbling architecture of the good fathers," he suggested.

"I should love to help the work along," she answered. They had finished with the small, chilly, almost antiseptically treated rooms, open to strangers, and were now standing at the foot of the old stairway leading above to the towers. On account of previous experience Isabel regarded the high stone steps with trepidation. The brother, not intending to mount, bade them take their time, then meet him again outside in the sunshine. Philip offered to help his wife with an initial lift, but she refused assistance, declaring that to be game when mounting historic steps was the only way. "I may not be able to move to-morrow, but to-day I shall not think of future punishment," she gayly jested. Philip went behind to guard her as she took the penitential climb. And at last both were resting in the ancient belfry, close to the old bells from Spain. Below the sacred garden lay plain to their view. Philip pictured the first sinful man peering into forbidden Eden. Then he remembered that Adam still had Eve.